Fatal Flirting
by Aradia1013
Summary: She's found the key to his heart, twisted though it may be. Dark!Hermione.
1. Chapter 1

Just a quick, dark little one-shot. It's been a while. As always, I own nothing.

* * *

Draco Malfoy slumped in the middle of a meeting of Voldemort's inner circle, sipping 25-year-old scotch and half-listening to his father, Bellatrix, and the Dark Lord discuss the growing problem of Hermione Granger.

Yes, he smirked and nodded thoughtfully. She was trouble indeed, for more than one reason. Granger had become hardened to the point of sadism on the battlefield. Her reworked spells were giving the Death Eaters fits.

* * *

Granger's modification to the Imperius curse had been particularly nasty, and Draco's favorite. She could hex one Death Eater, simultaneously planting the immediate instruction to eliminate all of his fellows within range. The sweeping motion she used enabled her to create a line of mindless murderers, and she destroyed 60 of Voldemort's followers before the others had the presence of mind to retreat. The triumphant glow on her face when Goyle Sr. killed his own heir was impossible to miss. Malfoy was half in-love with her after that both for her viciousness, and her efficiency.

Her Sectumsempra's cut deeper than Potter's and she had separated the hex from the healing charm, leaving victims unable to staunch the bleeding.

In another incident, she flayed Scabior's skin from his body, each sheet aflame. She even denied him the ability to seek refuge in unconsciousness. It was payback for the Snatcher trying to manhandle her after he told her he thought she was a 'hot little Mudblood.' She'd offered to show him just how hot, hollered, "Opa!" and lit him up like a Roman candle. Granger's tinkling laugh had rung out while Scabior burned, tauntingly calling to her enemies to request marshmallows as she lazily parried their attacks. No one had any? Ah, well. She shrugged, aimed a Reducto at the hunk of flaming meat, and put him out of his misery. Granger then had the bollocks to thank her foes for attending her barbeque.

By Slytherin standards, that counted as humor.

Today's offering had been petty in comparison, but he admired her vindictiveness and attention to detail. Pansy Parkinson was hit by a curse that removed her nose and endowed her with Voldemort's snake-like features. Pansy reached up, touched her mutilated nares, and screamed in terror. Granger had smirked, told Parkinson to be grateful never to endure the 'Pug-face' moniker again, and said she was welcome.

One thing all of the incidents had in common: after her atrocity du jour, Granger would catch Draco's eye, mockingly beckon to him, and disappear. She clearly recognized the effect of her actions on the young blond.

* * *

The Malfoy heir sighed and shifted in his seat as his trousers became uncomfortably tight. His favorite Muggleborn genius was trouble. All that lethality in one pretty little package. His so-called comrades were fools for continuing to find her inferior after the beautiful havoc she'd wreaked.

* * *

Draco had reached his decision upon returning home from the last encounter. He had packed his possessions and planned to escape that evening during changing of the guard. As he fingered the ring in his pocket, and hoped for one of two things: a) that she would accept him as her mate, or b) she would choose to end him quickly instead of creatively if she wasn't interested. He had mental images of being smothered in cake or having an oversized wedding band around his neck, cutting off his air supply.

Order of the Phoenix and Light status aside, Granger was working in the dark grey zone, and Draco could recognize a kindred spirit when he saw one. Hell, he'd help with her cause if it meant being alongside her.

Either way, a guy had to try, right?


	2. Chapter 2

Even forces of nature need to take a moment for themselves, sometimes.

Hermione Granger relaxed in a heavily-scented bath, the lids of her dark eyes heavy as she inhaled lavender and chamomile, and exhaled hate and darkness.

How had it come to this?

It was a rhetorical question, obviously. The day she'd found Ron's corpse in the woods, his head quite literally in his hands, something in her had snapped. She'd heard that LeStrange bitch's mocking laughter and borne the brunt of Weasley-related taunts on the field.

 _"_ _Oi, dearie! He lost his head over you, didn't he?"_

 _"_ _I suppose Weasley was always headed for a downfall."_

 _"_ _Granger – let me axe you a question."_

The flying hatchets she sent in the direction of the Death Eater responsible for that last had diced him nicely. From that day, she considered it open season on anyone in dark robes and a mask.

Knuckles rapped on the bathroom door, and she wandlessly opened it a tad. Neville's voice was strained, yet resigned.

"Patrol found him; he's asking for you. They've brought him in for holding… You called it, almost to the day."

She tipped her head back, considering. "He's early. That's good. Eagerness is useful."

Longbottom sighed. "Not even going to think about what kind of eagerness or how you plan to use it. Or him."

Her smile was glacial. "Does it really matter?"


End file.
